


Blessing

by icarus_chained



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Boundaries, Complicated Relationships, Developing Relationship, F/M, Forgiveness, Kindness, Lack of Forgiveness, Love, M/M, Multi, Post-Dishonored (Video Game), Relationship Negotiation, Uneasy Allies, Unhealthy Relationships, Unlikely alliances, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-27 05:29:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21113459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_chained/pseuds/icarus_chained
Summary: "The thing about Attano was, he responded to violence easily. Not happily, but easily. He responded to passion, too. Just as easily, when it was framed as violence."Daud, Corvo, and the remains of Jessamine Kaldwin gingerly negotiate a relationship in the aftermath of the Interregnum.





	Blessing

**Author's Note:**

> This has been the week or so from hell, and out of it you get ... something a little twisted and strange. In some ways, a bit of a follow-on from [Benediction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20469971)? Daud, Corvo, and the Heart. A bit more explicitly this time.

_His hands do violence, but there is a different dream in his heart._

The thing about Attano was, he responded to violence easily. Not _happily_, but easily. He fought back, wild-eyed and savage, his nostrils flaring, his attention narrowed down to nothing but motion and punishment and answer. He fought like a dream, or a nightmare. He flowed like water, and hit like a loosed tackle-block. All precision and focus and _savagery_.

He was beautiful. Daud had to admit that. All lean, pared desperation. He honestly was stunning.

He responded to passion, too. Just as easily, when it was framed as violence. This game they played. Heated blood, power and focus lashed between them. He would run and hunt and _seize_ as grimly and as fearsomely as he fought. Pin or be pinned, kiss or be kissed. So long as it was violent. So long as it was teeth and blood and pounding desperation. Nothing sugared. Nothing offered. Just wrestled and fought for and won. A contract in blood. Those he knew what to do with.

He did not … respond near so well to gentleness. The few times Daud had thought to offer it. They had been the few times _Attano_ had thought to offer violence first.

Daud still wasn’t sure _why_ he’d offered. What he’d thought to gain by it. This game, this arrangement, had nothing to do with that. Couldn’t, really. Not between them. Daud had never been a gentle man. Never earned a softer, gentler thing. Certainly not _here_. Not from this man, after all he’d done to him. Blood and teeth were the best he might be offered, with the odd taste of a wild-eyed pleasure to leaven it once in a while. A bitter dream, but not unsatisfying. He didn’t know why he’d reached those few times. Why he’d tried.

There was just … something _thin_ about Attano, sometimes. Something pale and faded. On the verge of wearing away. In the aftermath, mostly. When the blood had dried and the bruises bloomed, and there was nothing but two ruined and winded opponents. There was something … frail about him. Only sometimes. When there was no more savagery left to disguise it.

Daud wouldn’t have done anything about it. Not on his own. It wasn’t his place, wasn’t his right. Attano had made that more than clear. Left to his own devices, he would have done nothing. Offered blood when the man needed it, and nothing more.

But Attano … had more heart than just his own.

His hands still shook to remember it. To _think_ of it. He’d touched her. Once. Held her. His palms burned for the memory of it. A wet, leathery, metallic thing. Hideous. Unspeakably hideous. And only more so for who she _was_. Who she’d _been_.

He’d nearly died that night. For touching her. He’d never seen Attano so frenzied. So mindlessly, savagely enraged. He hadn’t _meant_ to touch her. Hadn’t known she was there to be touched. He thought … He suspected, later, that _she_ had touched _him_. That she had slipped out to touch his hands. To get … the measure of him, maybe. The sensation. But he’d almost died for it. Had sanity not returned the instant Attano held her once more in his hands, had he not gone pale and horrified and immediately moved to stanch Daud’s wound, Daud would have bled out that night.

Not unfairly, really. Not without cause. But it wasn’t quite the death he would have welcomed.

They hadn’t spoken of it. Afterwards. Not once. Attano had vanished for a while. For a long time. Retreated to his role and his daughter, and stayed away from Daud. When he reappeared, he had been hesitant at first. Willing to be refused. Ready to leave the moment Daud flinched. Daud hadn’t. Wouldn’t. Not from him. And so things had … settled again. Somewhat.

But Daud saw her, sometimes. In the aftermath. Saw the shape of a thing beneath Attano’s coat. Heard a doubled beat from his chest. Heard … other things. Whispers. Murmurs in the other man’s ear, while they beat each other bloody, and pressed exhausted kisses to bruised skin afterwards. He heard echoes of a vanished voice. Things no other living man could hope to hear. Things no sane man would _want_ to.

And she was … She wanted things for Attano too. Softer things. Gentler things. She saw the thinness in him too. The tone of her whispers, sometimes, they were _bleak_. A distant grieving. She didn’t approve. Not of this, not of blood and bone and savagery. She wanted something _better_.

And after a while, she spoke to him. To Daud. After a while she started … speaking to him.

_Keeping time by the bruises as they fade,_ she murmured, when Daud’s desperately-swung elbow caught Attano’s face. _What other measure remains?_

_There is relief here,_ as Attano staggered back, bloody-lipped and grinning. _Is there nowhere else honesty might be found?_

_He is almost safe here,_ as Daud flattened him with a lucky shot, and caught him hastily as he fell. _Blood, not poison. Nothing given that is not owed. But it is not enough. Cannot be._

And then, finally, as Daud crouched panting over a battered, fading figure:

_You are made for more than violence. Is there nothing else you can give?_

“He won’t _let_ me,” Daud snarled. Snapped, ragged and hunted. His hands skittering away from the mound of her, the beating lump beneath Attano’s coat. Hunched over, wild-eyed and ruined. “You’ve seen him, damn you! He won’t _let_ me!”

She snarled _back_. A hollow, vicious thing. The remnants of a brave woman. Blind with grief.

_Coward!_ she hissed. _Useless thing! There is nowhere safe. No one else. All else you took from him. Can you not offer this one thing?_

Daud stared at her. Or the thing that had been her. Once, before his blade. He barked a laugh, wild and savage. “Do you truly _want_ me to?”

All else he’d taken from Attano. All else he’d taken from _her_. All trust, all faith, all gentleness. Did she really want him to touch her lover gently? Touch him with … something more than violence? _Other_ than violence? His hands had put a blade through her heart. How could she ask him to put them on this man in some … some twisted echo of everything he’d taken?

Even if jealousy was beyond her now, surely compassion was not. For Attano, if not Daud. 

But both of them had faded. Jealousy and compassion both. If they’d ever been there to start with. They faded away as Attano stirred beneath them. Struggled back to wakefulness. To violence. All that remained was her grief.

_A thousand hands to do violence,_ she whispered brokenly. _I want … even one that does not._

Attano blinked, vaguely. Still dazed. And reached up a hand to cradle her. Instinctively. Automatically. He frowned at Daud. Struggled to focus on him. Daud doubted he even knew what she’d said. Doubted he was aware enough to understand it yet. But he reached for her and shielded her without a thought. 

Daud shoved himself violently away from him. Scrambled up and stalked away without a word. Traversed, when his hands were steady enough to manage it without throwing himself mindlessly into the canal. Enough. No more tonight. He’d lost the mood. 

Attano didn’t stop him. Let him go, without a word. He didn’t speak. He rarely did.

And that might have been the end of it. That might have been all. _Too much_. The violence was one thing. Contracts in blood. Daud knew them too. Could answer them as well as anyone. But this …

He would have forgotten it. Cast it aside. _Left,_ as he’d promised so many months ago he would. Scraped himself back together, the few solid things left inside his skin, and left for somewhere not drowned in rain and blood and old sin. He would have done that.

But there was something thin inside Attano. Something frail and worn and tired. Something gentle. And but that he was threatened by it, he did not offer violence first.

So Daud waited. One more time. 

He didn’t stand. The next time Attano came. He didn’t come to his feet, power and danger ready to be unleashed. Didn’t traverse to him, didn’t hold out his blade or his hands in easy readiness. He stayed seated instead. Braced himself, yes. Gathered himself. But he didn’t offer violence, or passion either. Wouldn’t hold out that easy answer. Not this time. Not anymore.

Attano … wasn’t surprised. And did not leave.

“I … am sorry,” he whispered. The first words Daud had heard from him in months. Thin and rasping and tired. “I have … used you. Too far. I’m sorry.”

Daud laughed thickly. Deeply, blackly amused. 

“If you _wanted_ it, I wouldn’t mind,” he said. Meaning it genuinely. Dark and tired and honest. “I can pay debts in violence. All day. All year. Been doing it all my life. But this isn’t paying anything, is it? This is just … trying old wounds. Pressing your thumb in so the stitches break. Are you hoping to bleed out, eventually? Is that the plan here?”

He didn’t respond well to gentleness. But it was not, Daud thought, Daud _knew_, because he didn’t _want_ it. It was not because he truly preferred violence. He didn’t. He never had. He responded easily, but never happily. Violence was simply … the only part of it he trusted anymore. The only motivation he believed was honest. It was not, and never had been, the part of it he wanted.

He was frail and fading under the savagery. He was worn away for the lack of … other things.

And maybe he didn’t want those things from _Daud_. Specifically. Maybe that truly was not Daud’s place. Maybe they’d done too many things to each other for that. In that case, though, they needed to stop regardless.

Daud was no longer in the mood to be a tool for elaborate self-injury.

Attano looked away. Looked down. A muscle flexing in his jaw. But he didn’t deny the accusation. Kind of him. Daud wasn’t in the mood for lies either.

“… Is that what you want?” he asked instead. Quietly. Carefully. “To pay a debt?”

Daud snarled silently. He stood up. Surged to his feet. But didn’t … He reined himself back. Stayed in place. Held himself firm. No more easy outs. Time to have this out, once and for all. Say it plain. And then fuck off to Serkonos somewhere. 

_Is there nowhere else honesty might be found?_ she’d asked. Rhetorically, Daud thought. But it was a fair point, regardless.

“At this point, I have no fucking clue what I want,” he growled flatly. “But I’m realising that watching you slowly kill yourself isn’t it. And neither is helping you manage it.”

She thought he was made for more than violence. He wasn’t. Not really. But he could at least choose when and where to _apply_ it. It wasn’t the gift she’d asked for, but in the absence of that, it was the one he could offer. If there were things he wouldn’t be allowed to give, there were also some he could choose to withhold.

And Attano would allow the choice. His nature would demand it. He wasn’t the sort to take what wasn’t given. Not when it came to the things that mattered.

He closed his eyes, now. Pained and tired. His hand drifted up to touch at his chest. Over her. It curled slightly. Half a fist, the fingers taut and white with frustration. But they didn’t close all the way. Wouldn’t. For fear of hurting her. He bit his lip, and tucked his chin almost to his chest.

“You stand for her, then,” he whispered. Rough and ruined. “You … agree with her.”

Daud stared at him. His hands clenched as well. Something strange and quivering in his chest. “Am I not meant to?” he asked roughly. Feeling a burn of something almost amusement and almost offence. “Was I supposed to disagree with her on principle? We’re not alike. She asks nothing kind of me. But that doesn’t mean we don’t have a thing or two in common."

Misery, mostly. And attachment. Bonds of blood and worse. Debts less easily paid. Attano flinched.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I … didn’t know. And didn’t ask. I thought it wouldn’t bother you. That it wouldn’t hurt you as it hurts her. I should … have checked. I’m sorry.”

Daud narrowed his eyes. “I’m supposed to be content with violence, am I?” he asked. A little darkly, a little ruefully. “Satisfied, so long as it’s balanced?”

All things considered, he supposed it wasn’t entirely an impression he could fault. He’d lived his life by it, after all. Just … not usually in these particular matters. Not like this. He’d never offered violence in lieu of—In lieu of gentler things, before. Not until now. Not until Attano. When it came to that, he usually just didn’t offer at all. 

And perhaps he shouldn’t have this time, either. Perhaps he had betrayed himself, as much as Attano. He’d played along because he’d thought that it was all he was allowed to offer, but maybe that wasn’t enough of an excuse. He should have stopped this long ago. The moment he realised that neither of them truly wanted it. Not like this.

She’d been right. It was the most maddening thing. It made no sense for her to _want_ it, not from him, but she was right. He should have offered everything and be damned, or nothing at all. Sops and half-measures solved nothing. 

The worst Attano could do, after all, was kill him. He’d stopped being afraid of that long ago.

Though the blame lay on both shoulders, he knew. Attano should have stopped too. If not for Daud, then himself. Or even her. What purpose did it serve, to hurt himself this way?

“I’m sorry,” Attano said again. Still hunched. Still miserable. “I was wrong. I used you, and I’m sorry for it. I can’t … give you what you want. Either of you. Not anymore. I am … sorry for it.”

She pulsed in his chest. Against his fingers. Daud could hear it, even from here. Almost _feel_ it. She throbbed against the cage of his hand. Almost absently, Daud echoed her. Moved closer, by instinct more than thought. Almost near enough to touch. To hem Attano in against the wall. The man curved backwards. Pressed back against the plasterboard. He kept hand and chin pressed to his chest, and did not look at either of them.

“… And what is it that we want, exactly?” Daud asked softly. Ignoring how strange and wrong it was to frame them both in the same sentence. “What can’t you give?”

He knew, of course. He knew why the man flinched from anything that wasn’t violence. Why he couldn’t trust it, couldn’t trust anything that wasn’t bought in blood, already paid for. Why he couldn’t offer it, not again, not and see it betrayed all over again. He understood that, probably better than almost anyone. But he wanted to know if _Attano_ did. If Attano … knew what he did, and why. If he understood the probable price of it.

Daud had been built for violence. Had lived it comfortably for decades now, even if that comfort had eventually run out. Attano wasn’t built the same way. Even only months in, he was already worn to nothing. Savagery wouldn’t carry him nearly as far.

Attano didn’t answer. His chest heaved silently. His nostrils flared. Fear, Daud thought. Honest fear. Something he should have recognised long ago. Except he had, really. The first time he’d tried to be gentle. The first time Attano had flung him back and lashed out. Daud had recognised it. He just hadn’t … thought he was allowed to _do_ anything about it.

But she’d asked for it as well. If he broke something fatally here, at least she’d have asked for it too.

“You’ll bleed out eventually like this,” he said, rough and gentle. Taking his life in his hands to touch the man. Touch a careful hand to a trembling jaw. Attano flinched back. All the way to the wall. But didn’t lash out. Didn’t run, or strike. Her heart beat solidly in his chest. A doubled beat. Reassurance. “You can only try a wound so far. If you force yourself like this, you’ll wind up killing someone. Or getting killed. It won’t be me. I’m not … able for this anymore. But someone.”

Attano turned his head. Twisted it away from Daud’s hand, his jaw tight and stiff. Breathing raggedly through his nose. Daud could feel him shaking. Could feel the effort of will it was taking not to traverse away. Not to explode outwards, knock Daud clear, and just run away.

He couldn’t run from _her,_ of course. From the extra heart under his hand. Or wouldn’t, even if he could. He was a creature of loyalty, Attano. While any part of her existed, he could not turn away from her. He could kill Daud to free himself. But not her.

It must have taken all he had, to deny her this long. To hurt her, in hurting himself.

“… What else is there?” he asked thinly. _Harshly,_ an edge of grief and old fury to it. An edge of true violence. “What else is left? I can’t … I won’t try again, only to lose it. I won’t let it in, and have it betrayed. _Not again_. I can give you this. Or … someone else. But not that. Not … more. Not again.”

Daud … closed his eyes too. For just a moment. All right. So he did understand, then.

He firmed his jaw. When he opened his eyes. Braced himself and cupped the back of the man’s neck gently. “Then give nothing,” he said bluntly. Firmly. “Not to anyone. You’re not designed for this. It isn’t working. If you can’t give everything, if there’s no one you trust enough, then give _nothing_. There’s not enough of you left to risk anything else.”

It had worked for Daud for years, after all. Giving nothing. From a lack of interest, for the most part, but also … from a lack of trust. For a _large_ part. There’d been a few, over the years. People beautiful enough for him to almost want to try. He’d learned from betrayal quickly though. Almost none had been worth it. Attano …

Attano was worth more than any of them. In a different way to any of them. Which was probably why Daud had … made the mistake he’d made. Why he’d allowed this to run for so long.

If it hadn’t been for a dead woman, maybe he’d have let it run all the way to death.

Attano _shuddered_. Shook, and kept shaking. A strange, bizarre motion. Daud leaned back a bit. Alarmed. It wasn’t until a soft, choked wheezing, that he realised what was happening.

Attano was laughing. Or crying. Or some horrifying mix of both.

“_Trust,_” the man whispered. A fierce, savage humour. “That’s the thing. Why do you think I came here? I don’t … distrust you. I should. I know I should. You killed her. You _killed_ her, and I almost trust you. What does that say?”

Daud … had no answer to that. Had no means to understand it. He stood there, holding the man gently by the neck, a strange emptiness in his head.

_His hands do violence,_ she whispered. Speaking, finally. To one or other, or possibly them both. _But there is a different dream in his heart. He will not … I do not think he will betray you._

She said it hesitantly. As if she wasn’t quite sure of her capacity to judge in that respect. Even now, even like this. As if a part of her remembered her own capacity for naivety once upon a time, and how badly it had betrayed her. But she still said it. She still offered … something almost like approval.

They looked at her. Both of them. Daud shaking. Wild-eyed. Attano uncertain. He cupped his hand about her. Drew her forth, to sit between them. Pulsing tiredly in his palm.

“Jess,” he whispered, while Daud struggled to keep breathing. “Jess?”

_I cannot forgive him,_ she said quietly. _I will not. But he does not wish you harm. I died because I meant nothing to him. I do not … think you will have the same problem, my love. He would protect you. Even from yourself. I have not seen you as safe in any other hands. And I would … see you safe. I would see you happy. No matter the means. It is … nice to see him agree with me._

There was a tone there. A wryness. Almost humour. As if she understood the absurdity. As if she knew the irony better than anyone. Daud darted a look towards Attano. A shaken, half-terrified glance at the man’s face. Attano looked back at him. As mute and as shaken.

_You do badly by him, my love,_ she said softly. Gently. _It isn’t like you, to do so badly._

Attano made a noise. A thin, broken sound, his hands dropping slightly. Daud moved. Caught his hand about the man’s wrist. Almost too near. Almost touching her. His hand shook badly around the man’s arm. But he caught it, and held it. Bore them both up.

“That’s … not the point,” he rasped faintly. Distantly amazed by this entire … conversation. “I didn’t mind. I’ve survived much worse. Likely will again. But I won’t … _You_ won’t. Survive. Not much more. I won’t help that. I’m too tired to break people anymore. Or help them break themselves.”

They stared at him. As much as things like her could stare. There was a haggard, wondering look from Attano. And … something else. From her.

_I’m sorry,_ she said quietly. _I should not have called you a coward._

Daud snorted. Nearly spluttered. A burst of almost hysteria. “You can call me whatever you like, I think,” he said wryly. “It’s the least you’re owed.”

_No,_ she said. Almost chidingly. _It is not true. So it is not right._

And that was … what she believed. How she acted. Both of them. That was … what made them different. And had done, from the start.

“… What do you want?” Attano whispered. Both hands cupped around her. His wrist trembling in Daud’s grasp. He looked at her, for an aching, heavy moment. And then at Daud. Two ruined, winded opponents. Shaking in the aftermath. “From me. If you could have it. What … would you want?”

Daud stared at him, for the longest moment. A lump in his throat. A hard knot, that he almost couldn’t speak around. He curled his hand at Attano’s wrist. Brushed a thumb … against her. The remains of her. Ripped asunder by his blade. She beat against him solidly. Not kind, but almost gentle. He swallowed.

“Everything,” he rasped thickly. “Or nothing. Whichever you could give.”

More than he deserved to ask. Obviously. But he’d gotten so tired of contracts in blood.

Attano hesitated. His breath ragged. The pulse in his wrist, under Daud’s hand, thin and rapid as a man running for his life. He was afraid. Lean and lethal and savage. Casual in the face of violence. But still afraid. Still _terrified_.

And, underneath it, still dauntless.

He straightened up. Pulled her away, pulled her to him. And … reached up. To rest a wary hand on Daud’s cheek.

“I won’t survive,” he said quietly. “Not a second time. Not again.”

But I’ll offer anyway. Because I wasn’t built to do less.

Daud made a noise himself. A thin sound. Half a snarl. He muscled the man back. Against the wall. Pressed him all the way back and held him shaking there. His hands, her heart, pressed between them. Beating in time to both of theirs.

“She was the last person I killed,” he growled exhaustedly. “She did matter, just not in time. I don’t plan to destroy anything else.”

Attano’s breath, _Corvo’s_ breath, hitched. Sighed out of him. Almost a sob.

Then he leaned in, and pressed his lips to Daud’s temple. His cheekbone. His jaw. Exhausted kisses, with for once a lack of bruises beneath them. At least to the skin. Corvo sank forward. Rested his brow against Daud’s. And Daud closed his eyes, and pulled him all the way in. Turned his head, tilted it. Found the man’s mouth. Pressed his promise past the man’s skin.

She pressed against his chest. Her and Corvo both. Three hearts. A trebled beat. It shook him. It was a strange sensation. Terrifying. But there was an odd sort of comfort, too. A strange solidity. Old blood, old sin. The contract they’d been written in. But … more. Better. She was gentle, if not kind. They were all too tired for breaking anymore.

“Stay,” Daud whispered. Softly, raggedly. A request he had not made for decades. An offer. “Not for violence. Not tonight. Let me … try something else.”

Corvo breathed. Leaned against him, dropped his head to rest on Daud’s shoulder.

“I’m not good at it,” he warned quietly. “Not anymore. I can’t … promise I will not flinch.” 

Daud shook his head. Pressed a kiss to his temple. “It’s all right,” he said. “I won’t mind. I won’t … hold it against you. We have time to find out what you want. What you can bear.”

They had time. He wouldn’t run from this. Daud didn’t think of himself as a loyal creature. There hadn’t been many for him to be loyal to. But so long as any part of this remained, he wouldn’t turn away from it.

She’d gotten that right, too. Blasted woman.

_We will keep you safe,_ she whispered between them. Throbbing gently against Corvo’s palm. Daud’s chest. _In this, if little else, I am united with him. We will guard you, my love. Even from yourself._

Corvo laughed brokenly. Clung to them, both of them. Hugged them to him. Hating himself, perhaps, for every moment of it. Daud couldn’t deny the wrongness of it. The perversity, the twisted echo of all that had once been. All that he’d stolen from them. He’d known that before ever he’d offered. But in this, he placed her judgement above his own. If she allowed it, he would too.

And not just because he wanted it. Not just because he’d never wanted anything more.

As twisted as it was, it was honestly better than what had come before.


End file.
